


FATE PICKS HER WILDFLOWERS.

by orpheusaki



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Dream and Tubbo are brothers au, Dream is exhausted, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phil is a wonderful father, Takes place before the festival, spoiler; they didn't, the real story of how they found Tubbo on the side of the road, though that's up for debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:46:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpheusaki/pseuds/orpheusaki
Summary: "What are you doing here?" Phil finally manages to ask, his voice barely a whisper. The child in the God's arms flinches at the sound of his voice, but otherwise, he remains silent; wrapped in death and grime.Dream chuckles, and then winces when blood pours from the wound across his chest, "Oh, you know, just taking a walk through the neighbourhood."Or;The last thing Phil expects to see at his front door amidst a war, is Dream, the God of Chaos — and a baby, who doesn't speak.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 13
Kudos: 469





	FATE PICKS HER WILDFLOWERS.

**Author's Note:**

> tw blood and injury ! (not graphic violence)
> 
> the festival broke my heart, this is me coping.

"What…" Phil gasps, his eyes wide as he stares horrified at the sight before him, "What are you —"

"Please," Dream begins, his voice scratching it's way up his throat. It hurts to speak, to move, to  _ breathe.  _ But then again; that's probably something that happens when you've just crawled up the sides of hell, blood and grime under your fingernails (not literally, but it might as well have been hell on earth).

Phil's standing shocked, mouth agape and his hands balled at his sides. There was something horrific about the real-life painting in front of him. Strokes dark and vivid and so very  _ painful. _

The God of Chaos and War, a hole in his chest and blood dripping from his ears and pores; green cape soaked in dried flakes of red and brown, an axe, painted in the blood of those who no longer live to say there stories, under one arm — and a baby, wrapped in ripped bandages and fabric under the other.

He's no fool — he's been around for years,  _ many  _ more  than the God stood before him alone — and so he's seen what tyranny and greed does to a man. Had he been any stronger a man perhaps he too, would have fallen like the men that fight today; but deep down Phil's a coward. He stays in the forest, with the trees and the deers, watching as generations bleed and bodies of ancestors are buried over ancestors.

_ Oh how fate picks her wildflowers, _ Phil thinks morbidly.  _ Children fight in wars, children die in wars. _

_ And some children show up on my front door step amid the wars. _

"What are you doing here?" Phil finally manages to ask, his voice barely a whisper. The child in the God's arms flinche at the sound of his voice, but otherwise, he remains silent; wrapped in death and grime.

Dream chuckles, and then winces when blood pours from the wound across his chest, "Oh, you know, just taking a walk through the neighbourhood."

"You're the enemy," Phil breathes, "You shouldn't be here. This is sacred grounds."

He's not exactly sure what war is taking place now, since there's always a new one every time the seasons change, only that it entails his first born son — the Blood God — and the God who stirs chaos with every step. Destruction and conflict bloom under his feet and Phil wonders how long it'll be before Techno hears news of Dream's appearance at his childhood home.

Specifically Phil's home, his house, his  _ forest _ has always been holy land. No swords are to be wielded and no lives are to be slain when stood on the grounds of Philza.

The God of War stops smiling, looking troubled and for a split second; Phil sees not a childish God cursed with the evils of a thousand voices, but rather, he sees a  _ boy.  _ He sees a boy the same age as his son, covered in blood and grime and exhausted to the very bone.

_ Fate picks her wildflowers carefully,  _ Phil thinks,  _ she chooses the too grown to carry the burden of the devils. _

_ She chooses the children who grew up too fast. _

"But you are neutral in this war," Dream croaks, leaning against his axe like it's a walking cane, his body hunched over to protect the silent child that lives quietly in his arms, "Please, you must help,"

"I am neutral," Phil confirms, "But I can't offer help to you."

Dream shakes his head, staggering slightly as he attempts to lift himself up, "Not me — not me. Him."

He reveals the bundle to Phil slowly, his whole body trembling under the strain and the temptation to reach out and heal the boy becomes painful — but Phil holds back. It's not his place.

Hidden in his arms under a mountain of red soaked fabric, lies a child. With a horrible realisation, Phil immediately knows this child is too young. He's probably Tommy's age.

The contrast between the boys is stark. Tommy, wrapped up in one of his favourite blankets in Phil's room, pressed against the wall and pillow and completely ignorant to the war and bloodshed that occurs outside this forest. Raised in a utopia away from conflict.

And then this child, who is not sleeping but wide awake, bright eyes staring absently into Phil's own, clutching the bloody fabric he's wrapped in. Quiet as a mouse.

"He doesn't cry often," Dream supplies, perhaps sensing Phil's mortification, "I think he's learned it's safer to be quiet."

Phil is appalled into silence. He doesn't dare speak, not sure if whatever he says or  _ does  _ would warrant an axe through the head or a million years to purgatory.

Dream laughs at Phil's thundering expression, "I know. I tried to raise him to survive — but I see now that he's become more of an empty shell of the baby he used to be. He's only three, but he hasn't said a word in days."

"You're a  _ child _ !" Phil exclaims, "How are you to raise a — a baby? During a  _ war _ ?"

Dream inhales sharply, only this time it travels too fast and cuts him off at the throat, and he wretches onto the ground beside Phil's door; his axe dropping to the floor and his entire frame shaking like a leaf.

Phil watches as even through the unimaginable pain the God endures (Phil's only just realised that he's missing a  _ heart),  _ Dream clutches onto the child tightly, holding them safely away from the ground and the pile of bile and blood. Phil watches as Dream runs a hand absentmindedly through the baby's hazel hair, as he hacks up his lungs and dignity onto Phil's door step.

Phil watches the love and care and his heart  _ aches, _

Because he knows what comes next.

"You have to take him," Dream gasps through the blood, clutching the child close to his chest in contrast to his words, "Please, keep him safe. Raise him as your own."

Phil stands in silence, ears ringing.

"I know you'll treat him well, and raise him strong," Dream murmurs into his neck, his nose pressed against the baby's head.

"You don't even  _ know me, _ " Phil complains, although there's a certain lack of resistance in his words. The answer is already clear to him, but he's seeing how far he can push before the glass shatters.

"I know you take in children who've suffered," Dream cries, a sudden desperation in his words, "I  _ know  _ you took in Techno. I know you  _ care  _ about us!"

_ I know you care about us! _

_ Who's us?  _ Phil wants to ask, but he already knows.

_ Us is the wildflowers Fate picked. Us is the children who fight in wars. Us is the children who die in wars. Us is the burdened children who grow up too fast. _

"Please, please," the God  _ pleads  _ and Phil wants to throw up at the vile stench of blood, bile and  _ anguish,  _ "Please take my brother and keep him safe from the things I create! Please —"

Dream freezes when he feels Phil's cold hand press against his forehead, his skin burning under the touch. He stops speaking, looking up nervously to meet the older man's eyes.

Phil's eyes are as black as his wings, glossy and overbearing as them too. They bore into Dreams soul — searching for something.

It seems they find whatever it is he was looking for, as Phil then runs a hand through Dream's knotted blonde hair, like a father would. Not that Dream's ever had the pleasure of experience. Not all adults are as nurturing as Phil — and not all children are as blessed as Techno and Wilbur.

_ Some children are like Dream; alone, heart-less and dying a slow and painful death. _

Phil then reaches out and takes the closest thing to family Dream has ever had right from his arms, holding the child's head in his palm and rubbing his cheek softly;

And Dream let's him go.

"His name's Tubbo," Dream whispers, not wanting to be too loud in case the words get lost in the wind, "He really likes bees, for some reason. And soup. He — he has trouble reading and speaking but — but he's a smart kid. He'll learn and —"

"Okay," Phil confirms. "Okay, you did well. Thank you for bringing him here."

_ Thank you for saving him. Thank you for stopping him from becoming you. _

"He'll be happier here," Dream says through silent tears he hadn't realised had started to fall. Phil doesn't mention them. "I don't want him to remember any of this."

Phil frowns, at a loss,

"Don't tell him about me, or about the war," Dream further clarifies, voice breaking at every word and breathing becoming impossibly shallow, "I never — I never want to see him again. It's better for him, if we never meet."

_ Ah,  _ Phil thinks,  _ children, so naive to the ever working hands of fate. _

"I can't guarantee anything," Phil settles for instead, deciding some things are better left unsaid, "What if a day comes when you meet again?"

Dream hums for a moment, then wheezes as he laughs bitterly, "Well, if you're the one raising him — he'll probably be trying to kill me, won't he?"

Phil doesn't attempt to disagree, "And will you let him?"

"What?"

Phil narrows his eyes, "Will you let him kill you? Or will you kill him."

Dream doesn't answer for a long time, but it's not really all that long — but time works differently in Phil's forest. He pours his powers into preserving as much life and  _ time  _ as he can; for his sons to grow and be children before fate rips them from his hands and thrusts them to a world of war and death.

But that also means the sad, empty feelings of despair are also dragged along. A minute of torture could end up feeling like years if you're too careless.

"I'll kill him." Dream replies, and Phil's not surprised at all, "But I know he'll put up a good fight."

_ He is my brother, after all. _

"If my children are to ever seek your sanctuary," Phil moves on, wondering if he's legally allowed to scrape Dream off his porch if the man collapses due to blood loss, "You are to give it to them. If you can promise this, you have my word, I won't tell him how he came to be under my care."

Dream nods shakily, muscles trembling and shivering, "I promise." He brings up a hand, slow and robotically, forehead creased at the pain that courses through his entire body as he does so; but he pushes through. He then rests his arm on Tubbo's small tuft of brown hair, messily ruffling the hair — one last time. A thin stripe of blood wipes from his hands to Tubbo's forehead, but neither flinch.

"Goodbye," Dream whispers, and Tubbo stares at him, not blinking once. Dream can't remember the last time his younger brother smiled.

He hopes his brother grows to smile everyday. He blesses his life to be filled with nothing but happiness henceforth. 

Phil doesn't say anything more, not even when Dream eventually rips his hand away, fingers shaking as he leans down to pick up his axe.

And then he turns his back, and leaves.

He walks away, into the coverings of trees, which bend out of the way to let him drag his feet behind him. He leaves a trail of blood behind him; and Phil knows it's Dream's own when it begins to smoke and dissipate into the ground. God's bleed like acid and smoke.

Phil stands at his door and waits, just in case, fate decides to weave her tapestry differently. Just in case the boy without a heart comes back.

He stands there until Tommy, hidden away in the house begins to cry; probably having just woken up from his nap and panicked when there wasn't the usual sight of Phil laying beside him.

And then, miraculously, at the sound of another child's discomfort, or perhaps a bittersweet betrayal of his own blood brother, Tubbo cries too. It's a painful, ugly sounding cry; one that digs deep into the stomach of anyone listening and plants itself there heavily. A cry of a child who hasn't uttered a word.

Phil grabs a breeze that passes by at that moment, and pushes it towards the bloody trail leading into the forest; and then, he enters the house, a crying child awaiting inside and a crying child in need of a bath in his arms. He shuts the door behind him, and decides he won't be opening it again until the stench of blood is no more.

Deep in the forest, the God of War feels the warm breeze brush past his face; tickling his cheek with gentle fingers. And he hears the cry of a baby.

He smiles.

_ I hope your life is filled with immense happiness, baby brother. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


Many years and a handful of wars later; Wilbur and Tommy — brothers of Techno and sons of Phil — arrive in his lands. And Dream welcomes them with open arms, remembering a similar favour he had asked for over a decade ago. He promised after all.

"Bees?! I love bees!"

But then, another pair of the legs follow a few days later.

"Oh my go— is that soup? Soup is my favourite!"

And Dream watches with a sour expression, at a small tuft of brown hair and a laugh loud and infectious, that it runs through the empty fields of a nation he now gets to build.

And he realises that, one day, he'll have to kill him. To restore a balance that shifted.

Behind the mask Dream is disappointed at the fire in the boys eyes, at the spark in his words and the attention he grabs with his determination alone. Dream is _disgusted_ — because his brother, raised in a world where Dream was nothing but scary bedtime story, had become the Gods worst fears.

"Let's play chess! I'm really good at —"

_ Fate picks her wildflowers carefully,  _ Phil thinks as he sits at his kitchen table, in his house, in his forest a thousand miles away,  _ she picks children who grew up too fast. _

"Hi Dream! I'm Tubbo, nice to meet you!"

His brother had become _him._

_ She picks, Us. _

**Author's Note:**

> let me know your thoughts! thanks for reading <3


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